by Mike Bennett
‘David?’
‘What?’ David’s voice echoed up from beyond the door in the bookcase. ‘Who’s there?’
Conchita ran across the room and through the bookcase door. She started down the stairs, ‘It’s me, Conchita. I heard you screaming. Are you all right?’
‘Conchita! Oh Jesus, be careful – he’s here!’
Conchita reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. In the centre of the cellar floor stood the coffin on its stone plinth. Above it, glowed a single, naked light bulb. Her breath caught in her throat and she genuflected instinctively. She had grown up in Almacena, where Catholic school had been inescapable, but her father had been doctor to Arthur Flinch and she had grown up a child of the Sect. She had genuflected to Christ because she had had to, but now she did so with genuine awe.
‘Over here!’ a voice hissed behind her. She turned and saw David on the floor, pressed against the wall in the shadows beneath the stairs. He was holding the sword John had given him, swinging it this way and that, as if to ward off an invisible attacker. His face was covered in blood.
‘Be careful – he’s here! He knows!’ His voice was tight with fear.
Conchita looked around, confused. ‘Who? Who is here?’
‘Underwood!’
Warily, Conchita walked around the coffin, looking behind pillars and into alcoves as she went, but there was no-one else in the cellar. She came back to where David cowered under the stairs, taking care to keep clear of the sword which he slashed erratically before him.
‘David, there is no-one here, only us.’
‘No,’ David shook his head vehemently, ‘he’s here, in the dark! We can’t see him, but he can see us.’
She craned her head slightly. David’s eyes were darting in all directions, staring madly yet seemingly registering nothing. When his eyes skittered across her, it was as if she weren’t there.
‘David, please, put down the sword. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘No – not you, him – Underwood!’
‘But Lord Underwood is … in his coffin.’
‘No, he got out. He’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse!’
‘Please, David, give me the sword.’
David turned his face to the sound of her voice, his expression flickering between fear and confusion. ‘Wait a minute – you – how did you get down here?’
‘Why, I came down the stairs of course.’
His face contorted with disbelief. ‘But – the door! How did you get through the door? The secret panel?’
‘Well, the door was open.’
‘No – he shut it! He shut me in! He broke the light and then shut the door – I saw it shut! And then, he-he got out of his coffin.’
‘David, the coffin is closed, and the light,’ she stepped aside so he could see, ‘it is not broken.’
‘Of course it’s fucking broken! Why’s it so fucking dark in here if the light’s not broken?’
Conchita frowned and came around so her shadow didn’t fall over his face. As closely as she could, she looked at his eyes. They were almost completely black, the pupils fully dilated as if he were staring into deepest darkness.
‘He smashed it! I don’t know how he did it! Maybe he used the fucking Force or something but he made it go all ... weird and then it shattered. I saw it!’
‘David, can you see me?’
‘Of course I can’t see you, its pitch fucking black!’
He’s gone blind, Conchita thought, but how? She considered the blood on his face; it came from a cut on his forehead. Concussion? Loss of sight or hearing was unusual but not unknown.
‘Okay, David. First of all, lower the sword. I promise you, you are in no danger. I want to look at your eyes.’
‘But you can’t look at my eyes any more than I can look at yours!’
‘Put down the sword, please.’
‘No – he’s still here!’
‘Yes, he is here, in his coffin.’
‘No, he’s watching us, he’s listening!’
‘He is not, David, trust me.’ Her tone was reassuring but firm. ‘You have hit your head and you are confused. Please, do as I ask.’
David recognised the authority in her voice. It was the same tone that he himself had used to take when he was a paramedic dealing with patients who were distressed beyond reason. Cautiously, he lowered the sword and laid it on the floor.
‘You – you speak like you can see. How? How come you can see but I can’t?’
She took the sword and put it out of his reach. ‘David, you may be suffering from some kind of temporary blindness.’
‘Blindness?’
She reached out. ‘Give me your hand.’
David held out his hand.
Conchita took it and came to him. ‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.’ She reached into her breast pocket and took out a penlight which she shone onto his head wound. It was fairly superficial and had stopped bleeding.
David clung to her. ‘I’m blind. Oh Jesus, the bastard’s blinded me!’
‘David, it’s okay, it can happen after a head injury. I’m sure it’s only temporary.’
‘No, no he’s blinded me! This is punishment.’
‘Why would Lord Underwood want to punish you?’ As she said this, she felt him suddenly grow tense.
He shook his head. ‘I ... I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘Maybe he doesn’t like me.’
‘But that’s crazy! How can he not like you? He is in his hibernation, he hasn’t even met you.’
‘No, not physically he hasn’t, but John said he came down here to commune with Underwood and that’s how he got to know him. Underwood must have some psychic power or something. I’ve heard of that, you know, in vampires? And he must have used it to reach into my mind and take away my sight!’
‘Is that why you came down here, to commune with Lord Underwood?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah that’s right, to commune.’
‘And so, what happened to your head? How did you cut yourself?’
‘I ran! I ran when the light exploded. I hit a pillar or something, but he was coming for me, you see? Getting out of his coffin!’
‘You saw him?’
‘I heard him!’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘Perhaps it was a rat that you heard.’
‘No, Conchita, I heard the coffin opening. It would take some muscle-bound rat to lift that up, now wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry but that couldn’t be. Lord Underwood has not the strength to open this coffin. He has been asleep without food – without blood – for fifty years.’
‘You think I don’t know that? That’s why I came down here!’
Conchita frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
David stammered, ‘I ... I mean, I thought it would be safe, you know? For a first meeting, sort of.’
Conchita considered, uncertain, then said, ‘I see.’
‘But – but he didn’t want to talk to me, he wanted to kill me.’
‘No, David, you are his friend. If he has this psychic ability you speak of, then he must know that.’
David found her hands and closed them in his. ‘I swear to you, Conchi, I heard him just as surely as I hear you now. I didn’t imagine it.’
She took his hands and squeezed them reassuringly. ‘I believe you, David.’
‘Y-you do?’
‘Yes.’ She tilted his face so she could look directly into his eyes. ‘I believe you experienced what you believe you experienced; but I’m afraid that what you believe you experienced is not what happened.’ She raised the penlight and shone it into his eyes. Immediately, his pupils shrunk away and he gave a small cry of surprise. ‘Do you see anything?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘a light – dark, blurry. You know, like its shining through the bottom of a beer bottle or something.’
‘But you can see it?’
‘Yeah. Is it a penlight?’
‘Mmm hmm.’
‘So, what – are my pupils equal? Did you get a brisk reaction?’
‘Yes. Now, close your eyes for me.’
He did so. ‘So, what? Do you think it’s concussion?’
She was relieved to see he was becoming calmer, more logical. ‘You are a doctor?’
‘Well, not exactly, no. I was a field medic in the army, and a paramedic, too. Until a few years back anyway.’
‘Well, then I think maybe, yes – you gave your head quite a knock, you know? Did you lose consciousness at all?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure! I’d know if I passed out, wouldn’t I?’
‘Not necessarily. You may have lost consciousness immediately and all this talk of opening coffins and shattering light bulbs is just … ’
‘Just a dream?’
‘Maybe, yes. Or a hallucination – both auditory and visual. The bulb is, after all, intact.’
‘Oh no, the bulb broke before I hit my head. I didn’t dream that.’
I’m sorry, David, but the bulb isn’t broken. Open your eyes again.’
David opened his eyes, and the world appeared as if it were under water. He blinked repeatedly.
Conchita moved in front of him. ‘Can you see me now?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘You’re blurry, but I can see you.’
She moved aside and pointed to the light over the coffin. ‘Then you can see the light too, no?’
David hesitated. Then, in a low voice, he replied. ‘Yes.’
Conchita patted him on his shoulder. ‘So, tell me – and please, think like an army medic – what do you think happened down here?’
David sagged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t forget what I saw, what I heard. He was getting out of his coffin.’
‘To hurt you?’
David shrugged. ‘Well, either that or to change the bloody light bulb.’
She looked confused. ‘You are joking?’
‘Yes,’ he managed a weak smile. ‘Yes, I’m joking.’
‘Oh. Well, that is good, then.’ She held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers do you see?’
‘Three.’
‘Good. I think you will live.’ She stood up and held out a hand to him. He took it, and she helped him to his feet. ‘But you need to get some sleep. I’m sure you must be exhausted. You have experienced a lot today: grief at the loss of your brother, and the sudden weight of responsibility on your shoulders; a responsibility which you admit you are afraid of. This is stressful, no? I am not a psychiatrist, David, but I think perhaps your mind has been playing tricks on you.’
David looked beyond her at the coffin. No, he thought, not my mind. But him. He – Underwood – has been playing tricks on me. I don’t know how, but somehow he made me experience those things. I didn’t imagine them; he did. And he put them in my head to drive me fucking mad!
‘David?’
He turned to her. She was looking at him, concerned; waiting for a reply that would confirm for her that he was okay, that he wasn’t going crazy – and perhaps, more importantly – a reply that would assure her that he wasn’t a threat to Underwood. He knew he had to give her the response she desired. He put his hands over his face and slowly drew them down. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose so. Yeah, I guess you’re right; I am exhausted. I ... I was very drunk last night, and I didn’t get any sleep – not proper sleep, anyway. And yes, this has all been a massive shock, to say the least. Throw in the stress, the fear and … yes, I suppose I must have imagined the whole thing.’
She smiled and took him by the elbow.
‘Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, and into bed. I have some Ibuprofen upstairs – you must have quite a headache, no?’
He realised, for the first time, that he did. ‘Yeah. A real bastard, actually.’
She led him to the stairs. ‘Well, we’ll soon take care of that, and then in the morning I’m sure all of this will make a lot more sense to you.’
David nodded. ‘Yeah, of course you’re ... you’re absolutely right.’
‘Oh, one moment.’ Conchita stopped and went back under the stairs. A second later she emerged, carrying the sword. ‘Your sword. Why did you bring it down here, anyway?’
He licked his lips and tasted dried blood. ‘I … just had it with me, you know?’
‘Well, you don’t want to leave it down here.’ She handed him the weapon. ‘You are the guardian now.’
‘Yeah.’ David took the sword. ‘How could I forget that?’
Conchita came alongside him and put a hand lightly on his back, and together they walked up the stairs. Conchita urged David to go through first into the library. As he did so, she turned back to look at the coffin.
‘Goodnight, My Lord, until tomorrow night.’ She switched off the light and followed David back into the house.
11
THE CALM, ALMOST FLAT MEDITERRANEAN shimmered in the heat haze, its surface glittering in the sunlight as its small waves rolled quietly against the beach. Keith started, realising he was in danger of dozing off. He wasn’t wearing his cap or any sun block; if he fell asleep in this heat, he’d probably wake up in accident and emergency.
Where was everybody? On a day like today, Benidorm’s beaches should be heaving with people, yet there was no one to be seen or heard anywhere. He had the beach to himself. If it wasn’t so eerie, it would be great. But it was eerie. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked, but the salt still stung and he tried to wipe his eye but … he couldn’t.
‘Bummer, isn’t it?’ said a voice beside him.
Keith tried to turn his head, but again, he couldn’t. He looked from the corner of his right eye and saw Mark Coleman’s face next to his. A couple of flies crawled on Mark’s lips but he didn’t seem concerned. ‘Mark? You’re dead!’
‘You don’t look so good yourself, you stupid cockney wanker.’
‘What? Who you calling a wanker?’
‘Look around, Keith – oh, I forgot, you can’t – but take my word for it: there’s just us. So I must be calling you a wanker, mustn’t I?’
Keith made to grab Mark but found he couldn’t. It was as if his arms had gone to sleep.
‘See where your stupid, macho revenge crap has got us, Keith?’
‘Fuck off, Coleman. Your dying was your own fault. You should’ve hid yerself better.’
‘Oh? Hark whose talking.’
Keith gritted his teeth and strained to do something – anything that might result in Coleman crying out in pain, but all he could do was strain.
‘Hello,’ said Mark. ‘Here comes your mate.’
Keith’s eyes looked forward and immediately bulged in fear. Sergei was walking towards them along the beach. However, besides his sunglasses, he wasn’t dressed for the beach; he wore an expensive suit and black shoes, and in his hand he carried a sports bag. Keith recognised it as the one that he, Damo and Hodge had used to carry the money when they’d done the hit on Sergei’s boys. Sergei saw Keith and waved.
‘Who do you reckon he’s bringing this time?’ asked Mark.
‘Eh?’
‘In the bag: I reckon it’ll be that bastard Damo. Or maybe your other mate, Hodgekiss.’
‘What are you on about? You can’t fit Hodge in a sports bag.’
‘No? He brought you here in it.’
‘What?’ From the corner of his eye, Keith could see that Mark was grinning.
Sergei walked up to them and Keith found himself unable to look up beyond Sergei’s knees. Sergei laughed. ‘Well, look who is awake. Hello, Mr Mullins.’
‘Sergei! You bastard! Come here so I can – ’
‘So you can what, Keith? Give me the hard stare?’ Sergei hunkered down in front of Keith and peered at him over the top of his sunglasses. ‘You don’t have nobody to help you this time, Mullins.’ He started laughing and Coleman joined in.
As best as he coul
d, Keith looked down. Instead of seeing his body, he saw the seat of a bench, sticky with congealed blood. A fly landed on his nose, then another. A whimper of fear escaped him.
‘Oh, don’t be sad, Keith Mullins,’ said Sergei. ‘I have brought you some company.’ He began to unzip the sports bag. Inside, Keith saw smooth blonde hair streaked and clotted with black blood. Keith whimpered again, a long, keening sound.
‘Keith?’ Michelle’s voice, muffled and frightened.
‘Michelle!’ cried Keith. ‘Oh God, no! Please God, no!’
Sergei reached into the bag and gathered the locks of hair in his fist.
‘Noooooo!’ Keith’s head shook from side to side, but it wasn’t him shaking it.
‘Keith!’
Keith opened his eyes to find himself in bed. Michelle stopped shaking him. He sighed with relief to see her head still firmly attached to her shoulders. ‘Oh God. Nightmare. It was only a nightmare.’
‘I could see that. Blimey, I thought you were going to start screaming any minute.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I probably was,’ Keith pushed himself up onto his elbows. ‘I couldn’t move or nothing. I was like a headless corpse ... but, I was the head bit, if you know what I mean.’ Michelle put her arms around him and he moved into her embrace. ‘My head was cut off and sitting on a bench, next to that druggy geezer’s.’
‘Oh, that’s awful, Keith. No wonder you’re so upset,’ she stroked his head, its shorn stubble rasping beneath her touch.
Keith closed his eyes. Hodge was right: he had to tell her. Not everything, but at least some of it – she was in danger if he didn’t. That was what the dream had been about: a warning from his subconscious of what would happen to him – and her – if they weren’t careful. He sat up and took her gently by the shoulders. ‘Chelle, I have to tell you something.’
‘Oh? Tell me what, darlin’?’
He looked into her eyes. What could he tell her? Should he tell her that he was a murderer? That he’d murdered three men in cold blood, and that their murders had led to the decapitation of another, completely innocent, man? No, bad idea. He swallowed. ‘You remember that Russian bloke we sold the old pub to?’
Michelle’s expression soured and she nodded. ‘Yeah, old Sergei whatsisname.’
